A Lesson of Desire, Duty, and Determination
by Quiet Solitude
Summary: This takes place between Season 1 and Season 2; tired of sitting idly, a restless Ben runs off in order to find another spy to gain intelligence inside York City. He goes missing, and it is up to Caleb, Abe, and Anna to find him.
1. Chapter 1

Anna and Abe lay beneath the sun-streaked forest, nestling next to each other under a threadbare quilt. The only sounds surrounding them were the quiet whispers of lush green leaves shivering in the gentle breeze, the chatter of an occasional curious squirrel, and the ever-present whistle of a songbird.

They should already be heading back to the dingy little town, blackened by years' worth of lies and deceit committed by commoners such as themselves. Out here they could somehow break away from the ties that bound them to the village; out here they could forget that they, too, were flies caught in the intricate web of deception. But perhaps they _were_ separated; indeed, who of the other townsfolk supported the Patriot cause? Who of the others fought the accursed lobsterbacks that claimed to "cleanse" the town of its "savage tendencies?" Indeed, who of the people married unhappily based on these ludicrous rules carried over on the Mayflower, choosing to merely exist for the rest of their days instead of to live? And for what? All to preserve a bit of status. As if this thought crossed both minds simultaneously, the two huddled even closer together. They could pretend just a little longer.

Suddenly, a faint rustling noise pierced the peaceful scene, causing all other sounds to fall silent. The two tensed, the man grabbing his trousers while the woman cocked her pistol. Each pair of eyes focused on the direction of the noise, each mind working tirelessly to form some sort of plan to ensure the escape of them both. The rustling sounded again, the unknown danger moving closer…

Caleb Brewster stepped out of the foliage, a playful smile just visible under his thick beard as he watched the two sigh in relief. "Oh, what've we got here?" he chastised with a twinkle in his eye. "In broad daylight, and in nothin' but yer bare skin, tew? Anna, I thought you had more decency!"

Try as she might, Anna could not contain the smile that insisted on breaking from her lips. Lowering the pistol, she replied in the same playful air, "Whatever put that notion in your head, Caleb? Surely you haven't forgotten the way I could keep up with you lads, playing at all your games when we were younger."

"Ay, it'll take a lifetime to forget how hard you used to toss a ball." As if remembering the sting, Caleb violently shook his right hand. Turning to Abe—who had wriggled from under the quilt and was now hastily cramming his legs into his trousers—the courier chided, "Ah, don't get dressed on my part, Woody; I'd hate to interrupt."

Abe acknowledged this remark with a look of annoyance. Having buttoned his trousers, he whipped fiercely around to glare at his friend and hissed, "What are you _doing_ here? I haven't gotten anything new; in case you've forgotten, it's dangerous for you to be out in daylight!"

Caleb's playful smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a thin line. His eyebrows knit together over simmering brown orbs, and his ears turned a light shade of pink. " _I'm_ bein' dangerous? What about you, Woody, takin' your lover in broad daylight and havin' yer way when both o' you could be missed?" He advanced toward Abe, shoving him hard in the chest and making the farmer stagger backward. "Did you ever think about _that_ , Woodhull?"

Abe regained his balance and retaliated, grabbing Caleb's broad shoulders in an effort to drag him down. "This has got nothing to do with the mission—"

"It's got _everything_ to do with the mission!" Caleb exploded, tackling Abe to the ground. "If you two were caught—" he growled in broken phrases, blocking Abe's punches, "there'd be no more—Culper Ring—no more—information coming to Washington! We'd all be—fed to the British army—all thanks to a careless bastard named Abraham—"

"Boys, stop it!" Anna's sharp scolding froze the two men where they were: Caleb with his fist in the air and Abe with his foot in his opponent's stomach. "Caleb," Anna continued, her voice now even and calm, "why did you risk coming here?"

The courier lowered his arm and slid into a sitting position, seeming to collapse within his long trench coat. "It's Ben," he said somberly, exchanging a worried glance between the three of them. "He's missing."

. . .

"You're saying that Ben is in _York City_ seeking out another potential spy, and Washington simply let him go? The city's _crawling_ with Loyalists that could recognize him, to say nothing of the King's Navy sitting like seagulls in the harbor!"

The three bumped along a country road just past noon, relieved they had made it out of Setauket unfollowed and unmolested. Abe had hastily told his family that he had received word from Cooke wanting him to pick up a load of vegetables from Oyster Bay (the "farmer" had been caught on the black market and was therefore unable to travel without suspicion) and was willing to pay him double what the crop was worth if gotten to the King's Army as soon as possible. Anna, happening to walk by as he was hitching up the wagon, heard Abe speaking of his journey and asked if she could join, wanting to "buy some supplies that the tavern needed." As they were cheaper in York City, she had no doubt Dejong would allow her to go. Hoping his father and wife would simply see this as an act of kindness and convenience, Abe and Anna had ridden off, picking Caleb up three miles from the last house in Setauket. It had been a hasty plan, but they hadn't had time to think of anything better.

"Not quite; Washington 'imself didn't know the exact location of Ben until yesterday; then he sent me out to find 'im." Caleb rubbed a hand through his beard as he answered Abe's question, wanting to make sure he communicated every detail correctly. Things had been slow at Washington's camp for ages; the men were all getting restless, but Ben most of all. Nearly a week ago Caleb woke to find him gone, nothing left but a note saying he would be back as soon as he could. Caleb immediately went to Nathaniel Sackett and questioned him until he was blue in the face, but the man had mastered the art of secret-keeping long ago and would not yield. It wasn't until yesterday evening that the truth came out.

Ben had travelled to York City in order to secure another desperately needed source, a task he insisted on doing alone and as soon as possible. He had gone to Sackett the night before he left, telling him that the trip should only take three days at most. "I told him it was a fool's errand," Sackett had said to Washington and Caleb as he explained, "But he wouldn't listen to reason. He was restless, and is a Patriot to the core, and would have gone even if I had talked circles around him. So I loaded him up with equipment, dressed him in civilian clothing, and made him promise to return in three days, no matter the circumstances. But, as you know, we haven't heard from the lad since last Wednesday."

The three bumped along in silence for a time, trying to process the story and to come up with a plan. Though foolish, Ben would've returned to camp if his mission failed, so the looming question remained: where did he go? And how would they find him?

"Ah, and there's one more thing," Caleb spoke shyly. "Neither Washington nor Sackett know you're here. I came to you on my own."

It was Anna who replied. "You did the right thing, Caleb. We know Ben better than anyone, and if he's still in York City—" she gulped, her breath catching, "—we'll find him."


	2. Chapter 2

4 Days Prior

Ben Tallmadge bought yet another drink at yet another tavern, hoping against hope that this one would turn out differently from the others. It was his last night in York City; if he couldn't find anyone to trust with the mission he'd have to return with his tail between his legs. It would have been better if he had stayed in Washington's camp. He took a long draw from his cup, thinking with loathing upon Morristown. Why hadn't Washington moved yet? His entire army was wasting away due to malnutrition and disease, yet he refused to act, to strike the British with the few healthy soldiers that remained. If they continued to sit and wait, more would continue to die for nothing.

"Oy, you there!" a gruff voice shouted, jerking Ben from his thoughts. He looked up to see a disheveled sailor—many drinks in, judging from his jerky staggering—making his way to the vacant chair on Ben's right. "You look familiar," he slurred, plopping heavily down in the chair and trying his best to look Ben in the eye. Ben, in turn, pulled the collar of his trench coat slightly higher and let his loose hair drape over the right side of his face. "You look like…like…one of the Tallmadges I used to guard," the drunkard continued, his words slicing through the roar of the tavern crowd and into Ben's ear. "Oh, what was his name? Samson? Setauket? Wait, no, that's the _town_ he was from!" With that the man broke into a hysterical fit of laughter, slumping over the table and spilling ale everywhere.

Ben stood hastily to avoid the dripping mess. "No sir, I think you're mistaken," he replied, fighting to keep his voice steady and calm. "I'm from Jersey; just an honest trader passing through on business." He drained his cup quickly, then hastened away to the barkeep, leaving the man laughing.

The young soldier took deep breaths to calm himself as he waited for another ale. The wound of his brother's death still burned fresh in his heart as if it had only happened yesterday. How long had this war lasted? How many lives had been lost? Why wouldn't Washington _do_ something?

"…doesn't know which side he's on, I've heard." Ben's melancholy thoughts rushed out of his mind as he picked up this bit of conversation. He inched closer to the man who had spoken, trying to catch every syllable. "The man claims to be a Loyalist, but allows some awfully suspicious travelers rent his rooms. I wouldn't trust that Quaker to serve me a decent mug of ale, let alone stay there for the night. No sir, its best if you find somewhere else to lay your head."

"Shame, really," another man replied, whom Ben assumed was the weary traveler. "I'd heard many recommendations for his boarding house in the Bowery, but I'll not risk being seen in a questionable establishment."

His last mug of ale forgotten, Ben rushed into the street, having remembered passing the boarding house that morning. Trying to draw a map in his mind, he calculated that it was only a mile or so west if he hurried through the alleyways. Diving into one of the dark corridors, he began to make his way through the bowels of the city. As the soldier turned corners and crossed small side streets, however, he gradually became aware of soft footfalls not fifteen feet behind him. He could not recall with accuracy when he had first noticed the small noise, nor could he be truly certain if it were actually there or merely an effect of rising paranoia. He stopped suddenly, whipping around to peer into the gloom; all stood silent and still save for a rat scuttling away with a potato peeling grasped tightly in its mouth. Ben let out a breath, unaware he had been holding it. The fog and shadows were simply working on his mind, coupled with the eerie silence of a city under curfew. Still, as he turned to continue toward his destination, his hand hovered just above the hilt of a dagger.

Strong arms whipped out of the darkness, wrapping around Ben and rendering _his_ arms useless. A rough rope dug deeply into his wrists, binding them tightly together, and a meaty hand shoved a fowl-smelling gag mercilessly into his mouth. Ben tried to count the cloaked figures; there were three…no… _four_ men surrounding him, their faces shrouded by lanky hair and bits of cloth

A sharp kick in the back of the knees brought the soldier down hard; his hair was yanked back to force his eyes to make contact with the leader of the gang, a fierce and veiny city rat dressed in rags. "So, you're a Tallmadge of Setauket, eh?" the figure rasped, stretching his thin form to its full height and letting out a hoarse cackle. "We got 'im, boys. Ye know what to do."

The back of Ben's head lit up with pain; reeling, he felt the dampness of the earth as it connected to his face, only half-comprehending that he was being dragged away through the mud.

. . .

Ben first registered the smell: a damp, woody smell mingled with sour ale and unwashed human, a smell that sharply contrasted with the seaside freshness of Setauket or even the disease-heavy stench of Washington's camp. At least there he could step away to get a lungful of crisp air; here it smelled as if even a puff of clean oxygen hadn't passed through in decades.

Then came the pain. Though his head throbbed unforgivingly, the roughness of the ropes—now around his wrists _and_ ankles—felt as if they were ripping his skin to the bone. Ben wriggled his fingers, feeling a warm, slimy coating of blood on his palms.

Sound and sight worked together to bring Ben back to his senses; as he blinked, catching three hazy silhouettes sitting around a lantern, gruff voices faded in and out, occasionally mingled with a few grunts of laughter and what seemed to be dozens of heavy footfalls. He seemed to be in a cellar of some kind, the ceiling obscured by shadows.

"Oy, look who's awake!" came a garbled shout as Ben struggled to sit up. "Ahh, lad, better stay down for a few more minutes; ol' Fraser over there clocked ye pretty hard." But scarcely had the words left his mouth when Ben doubled over and vomited, the pain in his head rushing up like a thundercloud. Peals of laughter erupted around the room as he heaved, emptying his stomach and nearly falling into the mess.

"Ooooh, don't mock the lad." The words echoed around the room as a low growl, wolf-like and hungry. "That's my job." Ben's blood froze; he recognized that voice, had dreamt of silencing its owner for over six months. Robert Rogers knelt down, eyeing his captive with mingled satisfaction and pity. "Benjamin Tallmadge," he continued in his slow, mocking tone, "ye've made quite a name for yerself, haven't ya? Become one of Washington's favorite pets, I hear. Tell me, did ye run away with yer tail tucked between yer legs, or did ye just get tired of yer owner feedin' ya scraps on a short leash?"

Ben promptly spat in Rogers' face.

Rogers was on Ben in a moment, losing no time in thrusting a pistol under the young Patriot's chin. "Ye've come to play with true rebels now, boy. But," the hold on Ben relaxed, though the pistol remained, "as much as I'd like to see yer brains spattered across the floor, I need to pick at 'em first. So why don't you tell me what General Washington's up to, eh?"


	3. Chapter 3

"You've got your papers, then?" the redcoat asked Abe as they waited at the checkpoint.

Abe handed them down with a broad grin on his face and a cheery, "There ya go!" to defer any suspicion the King's army seemed to have about the forged document.

"Going to see Cooke's men, eh? That's a relief; the army desperately needs fresh vegetables." He looked in the back of the cart to inspect the few crates of carrots and turnips the three had bartered for in Oyster Bay. "Ah well, every little bit helps. Now…who did you say these two were?" The officer narrowed his eyes at Anna and Caleb, who nodded politely in return.

"This is a fellow farmer and friend," Abe began as he had at every checkpoint since their journey began, gesturing to Caleb. "He and I have known each other for years, and he's had an incredible crop o' radishes ever since he's planted his first seed. Thought Cooke'd like to speak with him, hopefully to get you men a bit more in your bellies! And this," he continued, gently touching Anna's hand, "is my lovely wife. She's never been to the city, but has friends there. My guess is they'll all be out shopping while we tend to business."

The redcoat's wary glance softened as soon as he heard that Caleb held the promise of food; no doubt the army was lacking supplies they could easily have gotten when they were stationed in England. Handing the papers back to Abe and smiling tenderly at Anna, he said, "Right, then. Carry on, but do be careful; it's already dusk, and filthy vagabonds prowl the streets at night. Travel safe!"

Abe had already whipped the reins by the time the dragoon finished; the three bounced along once more.

"I don't see why you couldn'ta been my wife, Anna," Caleb chuckled, nudging her gently in the ribs. "I'da taken care of you, given you all you needed. We might not be fancy folk, but it'd be a sin to say we wouldn't be satisfied. Especially in the bedroom."

Anna punched Caleb in the arm, her good-humored smile hidden in the dwindling light. "But Caleb, don't you see?" she replied, her voice suddenly at its sweetest—a sure sign of mockery. "Women never want to kiss the cheeks of an arse, and a hairy one at that."

It was Abe's turn to laugh. For a brief moment, they all forgot the burdens that came with adulthood, and which were multiplied tenfold by war. Soon the sun fully set, leaving them shrouded in darkness save for Caleb's lantern, a lone orb trying relentlessly to cut through the black night.

Three hours later they stood in the last tavern on the mainland, jokes forgotten and ears alert for clues of Ben's whereabouts. _The Bulging Bride_ was a miniature metropolis of its own, serving ale to anyone and everyone coming into and out of York City. Whether Loyalist or Patriot, beggar or king, all who had a bit of money and time to spend were welcome. Anna and Abe had come in together and stood at the far end of the tavern; Caleb had come in about fifteen minutes later and hovered at the door.

Time crept slowly by, and the later it got, the wilder the scene became. Women from the brothel (conveniently located across the street) began to glide in and out, snatching up men in uniform, men in civilian clothing, men in rags. Oftentimes they began the initial rituals of their night's work before leaving the tavern, adding shrieks, gasps, grunts, and giggles to the growing murmur of the public. Drinks were demanded, sloshed, gulped, and thrown around the room, leaving the barkeep no time to mop up puddles of vomit that littered the floor. It was as Abe carefully stepped around one of these puddles that he heard, "…cowardly swine; if there's one thing worse than a Patriot, it's a deserter of the Patriot army. Not only is he a traitor, but a coward to boot. You know the dragoons caught another this morning?"

Painfully aware of his movements, Abe inched toward the drunken gentleman and his partner, both donning clumsily powdered wigs and stained red jackets that strained at the buttons to cover their bulk. "It's quite a shame," the other replied. "I hear _The Jersey_ is nearly overrun with prisoners; rumor has it she's to sail to Virginia tomorrow afternoon to put the bastards in a prison that's been built just for such filth. Probably nothing but a hole there; I'd wager twenty pounds that not half of 'em'll last six months."

"Ay, but we'll take it as a good sign. If Washington's soldiers would rather risk capture than stay with him, you can bet my arse that there's nothing left for 'em to fight for. This war could be won sooner than may be expected."

Abe had heard all he needed; signaling to Caleb and Anna with a nod, he weaved his way through staggering drunkards and giggling trollops, grabbed his "wife" by the arm, and led her out the door to the room he had secured for the night.

Half an hour later the three were pacing around their little room, still trying to grasp what the two men had said.

"We're not certain he's on that ship," Anna said to no one in particular. "He may not be caught."

"But there's a good chance he _was_ caught, and _The Jersey_ 's where those dragoons would have taken him if they _did_ find him," Abe whispered back, running worried hands through his hair. "Anna, we have to check. It's the only lead we've gotten."

"But how? I've been on a prison ship before; they're guarded both on the harbor and on deck, those redcoats doing unspeakable deeds to their prisoners. If Ben were on one of those…plague-infested death traps—" She broke off, a hand covering her mouth.

Abe's arms wrapped around her in a flash, holding her close. "That's why we must go." He muttered the soft words into her hair. "If he's on that boat, Anna, then we'll get him off."

Caleb's heavy footfalls broke up the tender scene as he walked toward them, hands clasped tightly behind his back. "So Benny-boy's got 'imself sentenced to serve on a prison ship, eh?" Suddenly a smile broke across his face, brightening the entire mood of the room. "You might have known the man who could get us into the city, Woody," he said, practically glowing with the beginnings of a plan, "but I know the man who can get us on board any ship in the sea, and he happens to be sittin' right here in the harbor."


	4. Chapter 4

2 Days Prior

The bright light of a lantern shone directly in Ben's face, causing him to turn away squinting. He didn't need to see who it was; the other men had left long ago, allowing Rogers to do what he pleased. Already Ben had lost count of the kicks, punches, and threats thrown at him, always followed by long intervals of pitch black darkness. He didn't know how long he had been in this pit; it could have been merely hours, or it could have been weeks. Time, like his thoughts, were growing hazier.

"Ahh, good to see you up, lad," Rogers drawled, advancing with a bit of bread held in his hand. "Ye want something to fill yer belly? I can't have ya starvin' to death, now, can I?"

The young soldier never glanced at the bread, choosing instead to meet the gaze of his captor. Rogers stared back, each equally determined not to break eye contact. There was something in Rogers' eyes, however, that Ben couldn't seem to place. Was it anger? Annoyance? Admiration? In another second it had vanished, but Ben quietly stored the unknown emotion in his memory.

"Ye won't eat it, eh? Tha's too bad, for I may not be able to get you much more for awhile. Ye sure you don't want any? I even brought something to cut you a slice." Putting down the lantern, Rogers drew a sharp hunting knife from beneath his sleeve, the silver blade blinking cruelly in the dim light. "Well, if ye won't eat, then it's down to business."

The ex-ranger strode across the room, pressing the blade to Ben's throat. "Do you feel like tellin' me anything now, boy? Anything at all? Who Washington's in contact with? Where he plans to move next?"

The blade pressed deeper; Ben felt a tiny, warm trickle ooze down his neck, soaking into the torn collar of his shirt. Still he remained silent, straining against Rogers' grasp.

As if in response to his prisoner, the captor pulled the blade back, smiling with hungry pleasure as the small cut dripped crimson. "Not even a little speck of information? Not one peep?" The point of the knife pricked Ben's right collarbone and travelled downward, slicing a nearly vertical cut into his chest, soaking his shirt with blood. The captive gasped with pain, trying to pull away from the blade.

Again Rogers leaned back, processing his prisoner's heavy breathing and never-ending stare. "Still mum, eh? Well, what if _I_ told _you_ that I could focus my interrogation…elsewhere?" As Rogers said this, the flat of the blade travelled down past Ben's breastbone and navel, coming to rest just above his groin. "It'd be a shame to have to trifle with yer manhood, to cripple ya in the most humiliatin' way possible." He sneered, cutting away the button of Ben's trousers in one quick flick and giving him a sidelong glance laced with mock pity. "And, if I'm a correct judge of character—which I usually am—mark my words, I'd be takin' something tha' hasn't ever been properly used."

Anger suddenly bubbled within Ben, calling to action the instinct to fight which he had hitherto suppressed. Before Rogers could comprehend what was happening, Ben had lurched his torso backward, thrusting his bound feet hard into Rogers' gut. The knife fell from the tormenter's hands as he grasped his stomach, the audible "oof!" drowned by Ben's mad scramble to kick the knife away.

"You swine!" the young soldier exclaimed, his voice strong regardless of the dryness of his mouth. "You claim to know the character of most men, but how have you come to know it? Through becoming an animal yourself, a mere _observer_ of the human race. You are no man, but a _beast_ sent here to break the spirits of those who fight for the rights God has given us! And no amount of mockery, nor torture, not deception will convince me to tell you a _word_ of what I know. You'll just go scampering back to your master, Major _John Andre_ , if I bow, to lick your lips at the leftover scraps he tosses at you. You're nothing but a begging servant."

Rogers, having caught his breath, had stumbled to his feet as Ben spoke, his features growing darker at every word. At the last sentence he snapped, grabbing a fistful of Ben's bloodstained shirt and pulling him up until their noses nearly touched. " _Never_ call me a servant, Tallmadge," he snarled, his eyes boring holes into Ben's. "What I do, I do for meself, and when I squeeze information out yer wretched form, I'll likely hold onto it until I find the highest bidder. And let me assure you," he added, giving Ben a violent shake, "John… _Andre_ is very low on the chain. There are no alliances here, no loyalty, no friendship: only individuals, and I take care of me own hide. Look around, boy; who's here to help ya? Who even knows where ye are?"

Rogers shoved his prisoner away, causing Ben's head to collide with the stone wall. The soldier blinked, trying to clear his vision, his thoughts, his mind, but all was growing hazy once more; the now-familiar darkness began to envelope him again.

Far away, a voice came to him, echoing through his mind, sending a chill through his body. "I'll let ye rest now, lad. And when ye wake, we'll have a nice chat about Setauket."

. . .

A warm cloth pressed against Ben's forehead, bringing him back to consciousness. He tensed instinctively as foreign fingers brushed against his face, but they were not the rough, meaty fingers of Rogers. These seemed slender, delicate, and kind.

"Shhhh," a soft voice cooed. "Try not to make any sudden movements; it'll send your head spinning once more."

Upon opening his eyes—slowly, so as not to start heaving again—Ben found that he was staring into the face of an unknown woman. Soft brown curls curtained her cheeks, drawing modest attention to her soft pink lips and kind, concerned eyes. She dabbed his cheeks with another rag, softly murmuring as she did so, "There, now, you seem okay. Why don't we try to lift you into a sitting position?"

Without waiting for a reply, she tucked her arms beneath Ben's and eased him upwards, gently propping his back against the stone wall. Ben smiled shyly at her, both grateful and ashamed that she found him in such a state. "Thank you, ma'am," he told her in a cracked voice. "I am indebted to you. But might I ask…how did you find me?"

The woman gave a melancholy smile, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of anger flicker in her eyes. "A few years ago I asked a favor of Rogers. Now, in return, he's set up his twisted little 'interrogation room' in my cellar. As soon as I heard that someone had been dragged down here by him, I came as soon as it was safe. Here, I've brought a bit of ale and some supper for you; drink." She held a mug of ale to his lips, allowing the soldier to swallow deeply.

"I'm underneath your home? Am I still in York City?" Ben asked when the cup left his lips. He watched as she slid a plate of food forward, scooping up a bit of meat on a fork and holding it out to him.

"It varies with whom you ask. This is _not_ the island, but some would say it _is_ the tip of York City. But this is hardly my home," she replied, shaking her head. "No, I simply own the place; it's a tavern, and I pay someone to look after it. It was part of my deal with Rogers; most days I wish I'd never met the brute."

For a few moments the only sound was the clink of the fork as it touched the plate and Ben's eager swallows. Too soon the plate of meat and potatoes emptied, but he could already tell the meal had helped him regain a bit of strength. "If you don't mind me asking, miss, why don't you leave? Start a new life away from Rogers?"

"You've no idea how much I dream about it, but Rogers knows something of me that would haunt me to the ends of the earth. If I ever angered him, my reputation would be ruined. I'd be flung to the streets to beg; to starve. You understand now why I can't do more for you. If he even knew that I was here…"

"But surely," Ben prodded, sympathizing with her situation and feeling a twinge of compassion as she turned away to hide her tears, "your family would help you, would _protect_ you from him."

She turned her wet eyes toward him, a dry laugh—more like an exhausted sigh—escaping her lips. "My family disowned me years ago. My father has since died of a weak heart, and my mother spends her days locked in an asylum. I've no siblings, and I've no home." Strength seemed to fail her as she tried to manage a melancholy smile. Her eyes, round and green and full of sorrow, met Ben's. "I imagine, though, that you miss _your_ home terribly."

It was Ben's turn to sigh. He slumped against the wall, fixing his eyes upon the grimy, shadowy ceiling but seeing instead the bright, clear sky of Setauket. "Ay," he choked out, smiling at his next sentence. "Setauket will never find a place on any map, but it's home."

"How long have you been away?"

Ben settled himself, shifting into a more comfortable position in order to answer. "Two, almost three years now. My brother and I left my father to go fight, but Father wished us well and would've gone with us had he not been the pastor of the town."

The woman slid closer to Ben and followed his example by leaning against the wall, almost—but not quite—brushing against his shoulder. "Surely your thoughts turn toward home more often now, with Washington at a standstill and people of all kinds conspiring to force him out of service."

"What? N-no," Ben stuttered, turning to face her in order to gently explain Washington's position. "General Washington's been in contact with several other officers and is in the middle of planning his next attack. Last Thursday week I attended a meeting on how best to take the British flank at—"

But he never finished, cutting off his sentence when he saw it. Her eyes had only changed for a second, from vague intrigue to hungry eagerness for the information, but it was enough for Ben to understand why she had come. "You're working for Rogers," he gasped, shuffling his body away from hers as best he could. "You were sent here to charm out my knowledge." Shock immediately turned to anger; Ben kicked the empty plate in her direction, unashamed of the satisfaction he felt as it struck her arm. "Get out! Get out of here, and tell your master that he will never get an _ounce_ of information from me!"

The woman stumbled to her feet as Ben shouted, hiding her face behind a veil of curls as she picked up the plate and mug. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "He made me. I told you the truth about his hold over me, how I am enslaved to him! I'm sorry! The scoundrel has taken my values, my morality, my—"

Her voice had risen into a shrill frenzy, but immediately fell silent as the door slammed shut. Rogers' stocky form practically leapt across the room as he moved to clench her shoulders, shaking her as if she were nothing but a rag doll. "Ye good-for-nothing, filthy whore!" he shouted, tightening his hold. "What did I tell ya, eh? Whatever ye do, _don't_ let him see yer eyes while he's tellin' you information!" Whirling her body around, he shoved her violently out the door as fresh tears flowed down her cheeks.

Ben snapped. "You coward!" he shouted. "You merciless beast! From now on have the decency to question me to my face instead of having a woman do your dirty work!"

Rogers stopped at the threshold, flashing a poisonous smile at his captive. "Oh, don't worry abou' that, lad," he replied calmly. "I see now that the only one fit to interrogate you is meself, and trust me, we've only just begun."

The door swung into place with a heavy thud, enveloping Ben once more in darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ahh, come on, Creely! You've known me since we were both ignorant little bastards on that whaling boat. Can't ya do me this one favor?"

"It's _because_ I've known ye so long that I'm cautious," a gruff voice replied, hardened by years in the salty wind. "Ye think me ignorant, Brewster? This ain't some little fancy o' yers; something big's at stake here, and there's even bigger risk."

Abe, Anna, and Caleb sat in the Captain's quarters of _The Mermaid's Tail_ , one of the many privateer ships prowling along the coast of the colonies. Its captain, a Mr. Thomas Creely, eyed them all with suspicion over a tankard of rum. His lank black hair had been clumsily tied back, and the salt-stiff jacket he wore boasted stains upon stains of mysterious color, all falling under the category "putrid-meat brown." In stark contrast to his appearance, however, Creely's quarters had been furnished with nothing but finery; an embroidered coverlet lay neatly over his bunk, golden navigational tools glistened in the lamplight, an elegantly carved wardrobe stood boldly upon the back wall. Small trinkets could be found in every corner; from only a brief glance, Anna had already spotted several cufflinks, coins, and weapons.

"Thomas," Caleb said gravely, laying his fist on the table and shaking his head, "you've got to help me. One of my best mates got 'imself landed on that prison ship, and I mean to get him out with or without your help."

"Ye'll have to do it without, Brewster. I'm not gonna risk me own skin for some halfwit I've never met."

Caleb was on his feet in an instant, his chair toppling to the floor with a crash. "Damn you, Creely!" Flames seemed to leap from his eyes as he reached the captain in two strides, staring down at his former shipmate. "You _owe_ me, you lily-livered sot! Who saved your arse when you fell into the Northern Atlantic? Who got you your first screw up in Maine? Who introduced you to Ryder, the man you worked for till you could afford a ship o' your own? That was _me_ , Creely, and it's time you paid me back. And," his voice calmed and the anger left his body, replaced with a cool demeanor suggesting a bribe, "next time I come across your books on the black market, I'll send 'em straight to you."

Never changing his expression, Creely rose from his chair, towering over Caleb by at least four inches. The courier stiffened but never stepped back, ready to take whatever punishment Creely deemed fit.

In one quick motion, the captain stuck out his right hand toward Caleb, offering it to shake. "Be here just before dawn tomorrow morning, and I'll see what I can do."

Caleb shook the hand heartily, grasping Creely's shoulder in a gesture of thanks. Not staying to finish their drinks, the three then hurried down the gangplank to find another room.

"His books?" Abe asked as they hastened through the darkness.

"Oh ay," Caleb replied, his smirk oddly distorted in the shadows. "Ol' Creely's always had a soft spot for the classics; you know, Shakespeare and all that. 'Specially his poems, but it's tough to get anything more 'n a scrap or two on board; books wear out so fast when you're at sea. Heh, you should see 'im three sheets to the wind; he'll start quotin' love poems fit to woo the driest harlot!"

. . .

The early-morning sun found a lone dinghy rowing toward the prison ship, its passengers numbering one disgruntled redcoat officer and two squirming prisoners. Abe scratched at his powdered wig, causing it to frizz even more. "I'm almost certain this has lice, Caleb," he hissed at one of his prisoners. "Where exactly did you say Creely picked these up?"

"You think you're uncomfortable?" Anna snapped back, gesturing to her mud-and-soot-smeared face, helping her look more like a wandering deserter than a travelling lady, "Caleb, what _is_ this? It smells like a horse's backside!"

"That's likely where some of it came from," Caleb replied nonchalantly. "Now lower your voice; we can't 'ave anyone guessin' who—or what—you are." He stole a quick glance at her chest, covered in a stained shirt and vest, then studied her from the trousers down. Creely had truly outdone himself; with luck, no one would suspect her secret. Besides, no one even glanced at most prisoners for more than a second or two, regarding them as life forms lower than beggars on the street.

The stench of _The Jersey_ hit them like a brick wall before they were within 1000 feet of it. Abe had wondered why the ship was anchored further out to sea than the others; now he knew. The smell of disease and death nearly curled Caleb's beard and set Abe's eyes watering. Anna coughed, trying to rid herself of the horrid odor, so strong she could almost taste it. "I take it back, Caleb. The stuff on my face smells like roses compared to this."

The ship loomed in front of them like a bloated whale, growing more and more massive as the dinghy drifted closer. Already sailors had begun to lower a rope ladder on the starboard side, their tiny forms bustling back and forth like busy ants. Once they bumped against _The Jersey_ , Abe gently nudged his "prisoners" in the small of the back with his pistol to urge them upward. He watched them disappear over the bulwark; straightening his tricorn, he too swung himself on board.

A fresh wave of the reeking stench hit him as he boarded; holding his breath, he gripped the railing tightly in order to keep from bringing up his breakfast. The ship was filthy; layers of salt, vomit, sweat and dirt mingled together to form a grimy brown paste that covered its entirety. Ropes hung loosely about the deck, carelessly knotted and swaying like cobwebs in the breeze, as did the sails that billowed weakly and then drooped once more. Half-dressed sailors in bare, sweat-stained feet loped casually to their posts, some staggering as if still fighting off the night before. Indistinguishable shouts drifted up from below deck, a harsh voice barking orders at unknown souls; could one of them be Ben?

Abe observed all this in an instant, for unwashed sailors immediately swarmed him, roughly shoving Anna and Caleb into iron shackles. The two never resisted, playing the part of exhausted, famished prisoners almost too well.

"What have we got here?" came a voice from behind the crowd. A slovenly-dressed officer pushed his way toward Abe, his coat wrinkled and wig lopsided. "As quartermaster of this vessel, I don't recall receiving any information about new prisoners, especially ones escorted by an unknown soldier."

"Sir," Abe said clearly, adjusting his red jacket and standing as straight as possible, "These two were found wandering in the forest this side of the Oyster Bay area, both possible deserters from Washington's army. They were caught trying to escape into the city, and my orders were to see them immediately to this vessel. I am to make sure they are chained and locked below to ensure no escape before _The Jersey_ embarks to Virginia."

The quartermaster sniffed, narrowing his eyes at Abe. Then, deciding that he wasn't worth questioning, the seaman shrugged and shook his head. "Fine; I suppose we can fit two more below. Smith! Daniels! Take these two below."

"Ah…I'm sorry, Quartermaster," Abe stuttered, stepping forward and nearly grabbing the irate man by the cuff, "but my orders were that _I_ was to see them locked away."

Abe tried not to shrink away as the great man towered over him, annoyance and impatience flashing in his eyes. Scowling, he spat, "Do what you will; run amok through the ship for all I care! And here. Take this for the smell." Abe took the salt-stiff handkerchief offered, then watched as the quartermaster stomped away, grumbling, "Damn them all to hell; never get told anything…"

"Come on, you cowards!" Abe bellowed to his prisoners, steering them out of the crowd and down the ladder that led to the prison holds. "Take a good look; this is the last sunlight you'll see for nearly a fortnight."

If the three thought the smell was horrible on deck, it was unbearable below. The air hung heavy and damp, saturating the hold with disease. Unknown bodies coughed and sneezed, cowering from the bright morning light as it cut through the darkness. Abe found and lit a lantern, then plucked the keys from a rusty nail, just outside the reach of the prisoners. He turned toward the cells: three cramped holes stuffed with at least a dozen men each. Most wore only trousers, their shirts having rotted away long ago. Some wore nothing. In the corner of each cell stood a lone bucket overflowing with what one hoped was only urine, but the smell revealed that it was something more.

The men said nothing, did nothing. They didn't look on in curiosity at the newcomers; they didn't sneer in the face of the "redcoat." Perhaps their souls had abandoned them once they boarded, leaving only hollow shells of soldiers to rot away in cages.

Abe's grip tightened on Anna's arm, not to shove her into the brig, but to hold her back. Anna, however, wrenched her arm from his grasp with force, saying in a defiant voice deep enough to pass for a young male, "Keep your hands off me, you dog. If I am to go to prison, I want no one saying I put up a cowardly fight." She then walked up to the cell door, Caleb following close behind.

The others moved back in one slow, obedient motion as the "officer" slid the door open. As Caleb walked by him, Abe whispered in a barely audible tone, "I'll stay on board as long as I can; try to find him as soon as possible."

Caleb nodded once in return, then watched as Abe slid the door closed, hung the keys back on the nail, and scurried back up the ladder. They were locked in.

The courier and barmaid wasted no time. "Ben? Benny-boy! You 'ere?" Caleb called as loud as he dared, wondering if the officers above would even care if he shouted as loud as possible.

Anna worked her way through filthy, silent forms, feeling her way to the back of the cell. "Ben? Ben, is that you? Sorry, I thought you were someone else." She was careful about keeping her voice deep; even if the prisoners learned her secret, one could tell an officer in exchange for freedom or even just a bit of bread. Morality, like spirit, could never survive in this place.

"Check the cell to the right of you," Caleb's voice called from the opposite end of the brig. Having reached the back of the cell, Anna felt along the grubby wall until she met iron bars. At nearly the same time, she trod on something stiff and skinny.

"Oh, pardon sir, didn't mean to step on your fing—" she stopped short, stifling the shriek forming in her throat. Anna had bent down to check the man's hand, but upon touching it, she found it ice-cold and leathery. "Caleb," she called, failing to keep a bit of panic from her voice. "Caleb, come here."

A shuffling noise came from the other side of the cell as her friend made his way toward her. "What is it? Did you find 'im?"

"Caleb, there's a dead man at my feet."

Heavy silence hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity; then she heard him sigh. "We've got to check, An—Andrew. Grab his shoulder there, and bring 'im towards the light."

The two dragged the body out of the shadows, lying his face near the only spot of light that dared to trickle through the hatch above. A pale, wrinkled face full of sunspots and boils stared blankly at the two, covered in a snow-white beard and matted tangle of hair sprouting from his head.

Caleb sighed heavily once again, this time with relief. "It ain't him, Andrew," he said, patting Anna lightly on the shoulder. "It ain't him."

The other men of the cell had been eyeing this scene like gargoyles, crouching low in the darkness and keeping their distance as best they could. Suddenly, one of the gargoyles stood, eyeing the two newcomers not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Though thin and gaunt, an air of quiet strength hung about him; perhaps not all his humanity had been lost…yet. "You two are looking for a friend," he said kindly. "Tell me his name, and I'll tell you if he's here."

"We're looking for a lad named Ben," Caleb answered, stepping forward to shake the man's hand. " 'Bout my height, light brown hair, pig-headed and stubborn as a mule?"

The gaunt man eyed Caleb's hand, then slowly extended his own. They shook, and only then did he speak again. "There's no one here fitting that description, but if your man could be accused of anything along the lines of treason—thieving from the King's army, spying, the like—there's a hanging of Continentals at noon in the Square."

Caleb and Anna turned pale.

Meanwhile, Abe loitered on deck, tensely waiting for Creely's signal. He wandered over to the starboard side, approaching a slightly less battered group of men passing around a bottle of rum. "Mind if I have a taste of that?" he asked, pointing to the bottle. "I've ridden nearly all night and could use a bit of refreshment."

The men eyed him with annoyance, but the bottle was reluctantly passed over. Abe took a long swallow, then handed it back to the group. "That's good rum. Shame we can't get some of that where I'm stationed; as it is, we can barely get any decent ale."

"Ay, it's a shame, that," one of the men piped up, guzzling a bit more from the bottle. "Ever since these damned rebels have gone rogue, it's been near impossible to get anything anywhere. Ye never know when one could pop out from behind a tree and shoot you in the back."

The others nodded in agreement. "Wasn't so bad while Rogers was around," another continued. "The Queen's Rangers could track anyone who had crossed their path six months ago, and when they found him, they'd kill him without batting an eye."

"Rogers? You…you mean Robert Rogers?" Abe blanched, trying his best to remain calm.

"Oh ay, don't look so terrified over it!" the sailor chuckled. "No doubt ye've heard stories enough to curdle yer blood! But I hear he's gone a bit rogue himself; got himself de-ranked, thrown out o' the army. But there's rumors he's still around, even here in York City, to tie up some loose ends."

"They're true, you know!" the youngest of the group piped up, his face glowing with eagerness to tell something the others hadn't yet heard. "Ol' Willie saw Rogers wandering about the harbor a few nights back. Said he had an inkling to go back to Europe, but first had to…how'd he say it… 'extract some information' or something. I'd bet my right arm he's interrogating one o' the Patriot soldiers! Oy, you all right? Have another swig."

Abe had paled and graciously accepted the bottle. "Slow down, man," the first sailor said as he watched Abe down a huge mouthful of rum. "It ain't like Rogers is after you!"

Abe smiled, lowering the bottle. "I've been fed stories of Rogers since I was first stationed here. I wouldn't want to cross him; a man like that seems driven to do nearly anything to get what he wants. No surprise he went rogue; it's—"

He never finished, for just then the cry of, "Boat ahoy!" rang through the air. Abe's breath caught; like the others, he ran to the bulwarks and leaned over in curiosity, seeing yet another rowboat slowly making its way to _The Jersey_. He squinted, trying to make out the face of the lone passenger to determine if he were a friend or foe.

"Urgent message to Major Johnson from Oyster Bay!" the man bellowed up as soon as he reached the side of the ship. "You there!" The messenger pointed to one of the lads curiously watching the scene. "Throw the ladder down and man my boat; I'll only be a moment."

As soon as the man climbed aboard he made straight for Abe, his powdered wig and tricorn pulled low over his forehead. "Major Johnson, are the prisoners you escorted to this ship below?"

"Ay," Abe replied, taking care to look at the newcomer with confused curiosity.

"I've caught up to you as quickly as I could, sir. New developments near Brooklyn Ferry suggest that those two aren't deserters at all; they may be spies, possibly along with another imprisoned here, and are therefore to be held in York City prison."

"What do you mean by 'possibly'?" came the voice of the quartermaster, once again shoving his crew aside to get to Abe and the messenger. "Surely you must know if he's here or not."

"Unfortunately, sir, I do not have a name since he could have had a number of identities while spying. I do, however, have a description of him and the fact that he's on board a prison ship. If I see him I'll know, sir." Abe let out a sigh of relief as the messenger answered; apparently he had prepared for this.

"Fine," the quartermaster snapped. "But send word to your officer that I'll _not_ tolerate this unannounced chaos on my ship any longer! It's my duty to oversee a tight ship, and I intend to see it done." He looked around at his drunken crew, a slight pink tainting his cheeks. "The hold's this way. Fat chance you'll pick out that spy; all these men look the bloody same to me."

Abe and the messenger followed, both doing their best to look delighted that the quartermaster wanted to oversee the process. As before, the dank air hit them like a blow to the face, but the quartermaster never paused, lighting the lantern and barking, "Move back, you miserable wretches! No; you two! Step forward!"

Caleb and Anna mindlessly obeyed, waiting patiently as the door slid open. Abe and the messenger stared intently at the two, waiting for the signal. As Caleb stood, his head shook slightly back and forth—a gesture so minute that one would never notice if he hadn't been looking—denying Ben's presence.

The quartermaster pulled the two violently from their trap and deposited them near Abe, who promptly pointed his pistol at their heads. "Well?" the weathered sailor sneered at the messenger, "See your man?"

Stepping forward, the messenger peered into each cell to survey the men. "That's him," he said after a few moments of intense study, gesturing to the swollen corpse Anna had stepped on. "Or what's left of him, anyway."

"Ha! That old thing? A spy?" the quartermaster arched his head back and cackled loudly. "That bastard couldn't even lift his head for weeks!"

"Which is the beauty of the thing, I suppose," the messenger continued in a calm voice, almost like that of a teacher. "Who would suspect a frail old man of spying? But in the end, he died a sinner's death, locked up like the mangy dog he was."

"How do you know it's him, sir?" The quartermaster seemed to have forgotten his anger, now practically glowing with curiosity.

"The general said he'd be an old fellow with a tattoo of a rose on his left thumb; you can just see it peeking out, though it's a bit distorted now from the swelling."

"Ay, that you can. Well, men, take your prisoners and leave, and be sure to tell your officer to have his information _correct_ before he sends suspected spies to my ship!" With that, the quartermaster whipped out of sight, disappearing into another crevice of the ship.

The group climbed out of the hold, "prisoners" once again being nudged in the back to hurry them upward. Anna stopped halfway up the ladder, however, risking a glance back at the unknown man who had given them information on the possible whereabouts of Ben. He nodded somberly at her, accepting his fate with melancholy stubbornness. She nodded back, then kept moving as Abe's pistol dug into her back.

The other sailors seemed to have lost interest as the group walked across the deck and descended to their rowboats, all piling in the one the messenger had brought over. "Thanks for watching the boat, lad," he said to the boy who was manning the dinghy. "Here's two silver coins; if you could row theirs to the cove on the other side of the harbor, we'd be much obliged. We'd take it ourselves, but these prisoners are suspected spies and need to be properly guarded by us both."

The sailor—barely old enough to be a cabin boy—didn't leave the dinghy, however. He eyed the messenger with curious uncertainty, watching with suspicion as the man pulled his tricorn lower. "Oy, I know you!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You're Creely's man, ain't ya?"

Abe and Anna froze; could it be that, though they had escaped the prison ship unscathed, they were to be found out by this boy? This lad couldn't possibly know the magnitude of the situation; if he were heard—! The two looked frightfully upward to the deck; no one seemed to be watching them, yet they may have gone to fetch the quartermaster.

Caleb and the false messenger never wasted a second. Caleb leaped toward the boy, pulling a dagger out of his jacket as Creely's man got behind the lad and held a knife to his throat. "No, I'm not," the privateer hissed, his wig hanging dangerously to one side. "And ye best remember that, lad, or I might let it slip that ye sold that 'lost' barrel o' rum to our crew, understand? Now, take the silver pieces, row that dinghy to the cove, and stay mum, understand?"

The boy nodded fiercely, all color drained from his face. Caleb lowered his weapon, and the privateer gave him one good shake before shoving the silver pieces into his palm and tossing him to the other dinghy. "Nice doin' business, with ye, lad," Creely's man whispered, then heartily boomed, "Make sure to tell your quartermaster we're much obliged with his cooperation!" The lad gave one last terrified glance at the four, they all smiled back, and he scurried to the seat of the rowboat to grab the oars as if his life depended on it.

"Arr, Creely better give me a double ration o' rum fer this," the privateer muttered as soon as they were a safe distance away, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his tattered red coat.

"For you, Percy, I'd give a whole _case_ o' rum!" Caleb exclaimed, looking to the man with appreciation. "A fine help you two were," he added, turning to his friends. "When the lad recognized ol' Percy, we didn't know if you two had turned to stone or were just gonna faint."

Abe rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore the courier's jab. "Not now, Caleb; I have some news."

"Us too," Anna put in, continuing in the same breath, "There's to be a hanging in the Square this afternoon for crimes such as thieving and spying."

"What?" Abe gasped, then shook his head to clear it. "And Rogers is in the city, as well. Rumor has it that he's interrogating someone."

It was Anna and Caleb's turn to gasp. "So we need to survey two situations," Anna said once the shock was over.

"Not necessarily," Caleb replied, the wheels in his head visibly turning once more. "If I know Rogers, the bastard'll probably watch the hanging. So, if we all go to the Square, and Benny-boy doesn't swing—"

"—we'll most likely spot Rogers and can tail him wherever he goes!" Anna finished, smiling.

"Yes," Abe butted in, his somber face contrasting with his friends' hopeful ones. "But what happens if Ben _does_ climb onto that platform?"

"Well," Caleb answered, his smile replaced by a look of stone, "we'd best be ready to swoop in and save him, then run 'till the redcoats catch us."


	6. Chapter 6

Present

The darkness hung like heavy drapes, pulling him downward. Ben drifted in and out of consciousness, never knowing if the voices he heard came from his own mind, from up above, or from the darkened corners of the room. The ever-present footfalls that echoed above him had become unbearable; every thump bounced through his head with such violence that he thought it would burst, and sometimes he wished it would. Time seemed to have ceased to exist, along with peace and sunlight; had there been a life outside this one?

Yes, yes there had been. He could not forget; he must hold on. He remembered Washington and war, disease and blood. He remembered the cries of agony he had heard on the battlefield and the choking gurgle of life leaving a body. He remembered the taste of sour ale and hunger pains during shortages, as well as the complaints of men who limped around camp, wrapped in rags and bandages. He remembered cold. He remembered restlessness.

But he also remembered the blue skies spread open just above the treetops and the peaceful woodland surrounding the camp. He remembered his blanket, his pen and paper, his sword. He remembered the brawny laughter of men who had just heard a vulgar joke and their shouts of victory when a battle had been won. But most of all he remembered Culper. The faces of Sackett, Caleb, Anna, and Abe swam before his eyes, reminding him of his purpose, his reason, his fight. His fight to protect them.

The door swung open for the umpteenth time, revealing the only person Ben had seen in the past two days. Rogers pulled a hatchet from his belt and cut the ropes that suspended Ben—by the wrists—from the ceiling. Rogers' latest tactic—a whip—had left fresh gashes on his back, just now scabbing over. Surprisingly, the brute had come back a few hours after the "interrogation" to coat the cuts with a bit of salve from a long-rusted can, soothing the pain a bit.

Ben crumpled to the ground—his legs having lost feeling hours ago—and immediately began a fit of coughing, stringy hair falling into his sallow face. "Oh, picked up a bit of a cough, have we?" Rogers meandered toward the reeling lad, placing a hand on his back. "There now; jus' cough it up, whatever it is. Sounds like ye might bring up a lung!"

Ben shrugged Rogers off with force, pulling himself away from the man and retreating to the shadows to hack up the phlegm.

Rogers waited a few moments in order to give Ben a chance to breathe, then straightened and aimed a kick at his prisoner's torso, setting Ben coughing and wheezing afresh. "Get up, you dog," the captor growled.

Panting, Ben stumbled to his feet, squinting as Rogers shined the dim lantern in his face. "Poor ol' Benjamin Tallmadge," Rogers mocked, cocking his head to one side, "Chasing his tail, tryin' to impress his owner so he can beg for a treat."

Something snapped in Ben; he felt the anger—no, the _loathing_ —course through his veins as he had countless times before. But this time, rather than suppressing it, he lunged at the man before him. Though his hands were still bound at the wrists, Ben stretched his fingers as far as possible, ready to clasp them unforgivingly around Rogers' throat.

Rogers knocked him back to the ground with one swift movement, rekindled fire in his eyes as he loped toward the limp figure. "Ye still haven't figured it out, have ya? How we're not so different, you and I." The former ranger crouched low, grabbing Ben's hair and forcing his head back. "Ye see, lad, we're both fightin' fer a cause. And it's not freedom, nor independence, nor even for a king. We're both fightin' fer ourselves, to make a name we can put to our bodies. We're fightin' fer a bit of legroom in this crowded world so we might do what we want without any superiors breathin' down our backsides, questioning our motives, watching our every move. Now tell me, Tallmadge, are you in York City because yer officer sent ye here, or because you wanted to prove yerself?" Rogers gave Ben a knowing glance, then pushed his head away. "Getting a bit restless in Washington's disease-ridden hole, were ya? Listening day in and day out to the rumors and whispers that Washington's finished, done, soon-to-be defeated, and wonderin' why in God's name he doesn't stand up for himself. So you…" Rogers trailed off, his eyes widening in understanding "…so yer here to find information in hopes that he'll act." He let out a slow laugh, crouching to Ben's level. "Ye wished to gain his admiration, his trust, in the hopes that he'd see you as more than a pawn in his little game. As a vital asset and ally. But there's more, isn't there?"

Ben tried to pull himself up, to crawl away from the man whose words beat his mind to mush, manipulating—or simply bringing to light?—his thoughts, his motives, his desires. Rogers cupped a rough paw around the soldier's chin, forcing his prisoner to stare into his eyes. A malicious smile broke out on his face as he chortled softly. "Ah, boy, we're both more alike than either of us could've guessed, though it's refreshing to see my motives manifestin' in such naive and innocent ways. You have brothers, too, don't ya? Just like those rangers were mine."

Anger swelled in Ben once more; he tried to wrench away from Rogers' grasp, but the hold on his chin clamped heavily down. "Who are they, eh? The Brewster lad? Ay, the one that went to the prisoner exchange instead of you. Grew up in Setauket, right? That backwater farming town with a pastor who couldn't keep his place in the pulpit. And where were you when the town was taken? Traipsing through some godforsaken swamp, marching to a battle that would end up bein' a massacre—"

Ben's form launched panther-like from the ground, his arms encircling Rogers' neck. He pulled back with all his strength, using his bound wrists to constrict his captor's respiratory tube more and more by the second. "Never. Speak of. Setauket. In that way!" Ben panted, fighting to maintain his hold as Rogers' limbs flailed. This was it, the moment he had been anticipating for months. The time had come to end Rogers, and he would enjoy every second of—

A sharp pain shot up Ben's thigh, travelling upward. The soldier cried out, loosening his hold just enough for Rogers to wriggle out. The captor pulled the knife from Ben's leg and wiped it on his trousers, towering over his prisoner, watching him writhe in pain.

"Tha' was unwise, boy. Can't ye see that I'm tryin' ta _help_ ya? That this little dance we're doin' is all in yer head? I'm tryin' ta give ye a choice, lad; I'll kill you either way, but if you cooperate, it'll be over quick as can be. If not…well…we'll just dance another waltz." Rogers punctuated his sentence with several kicks, the deep _thud_ of boots connecting with flesh hanging heavily in the air. Ben tried to fight back, tried to stand, tried to shield himself, but dark spots corrupted his vision. His motor skills seemed to halt; pain surrounded him, darkness enveloped him, and cries of agony filled the air. The soldier never registered that the screams were his own.


	7. Chapter 7

Abe and Anna paced back and forth that evening, wearing a path into the already thread-bare rug. It had been hours since they had planned to meet Caleb in their room; where was he?

As soon as the three had returned Creely's man and wardrobe to _The Mermaid's Tail_ , they hurried to the Square. Abe and Anna, posing as man and wife once more, were to scout the interior of the Square while Caleb lurked around the outer ring. If Ben were seen on the platform, Anna was to break into hysterics in order to distract some of the lobsterbacks from their gruesome business. Abe, in turn, would make even more noise, shouting to redcoats, the hangman, even the prisoners to do something or fetch a doctor. This would give Caleb time to push through the crowd and scoop Ben away. Their only escape plan was to fight through.

Much to everyone's relief, the three had not needed to take such a risk. Though they watched multiple men hang—found guilty of "betraying the King, running when pursued by the King's men, stealing a loaf of bread from the King's army," and other sentences just as minor—none could even be mistaken for their friend. Anna and Abe had lingered as the crowds dispersed, listening as the women giggled and jabbered about how horrid the entire business of hanging was, hoping to spot Caleb. The sun had set quickly, however, and they attributed not being able to spot their courier to the fact that his tell-tale trench coat and broad-brimmed hat blended so well with the shadows. Five hours later and still no sign of Caleb set the two pacing.

Suddenly the door swung open, revealing the courier. He rushed in and slammed the door, leaning on it as if exhausted. "Have I got news for you two," he panted, smiling mischievously.

Abe advanced, any relief he felt at seeing his friend masked beneath an irate face, his worry manifesting into fury. "Where the hell have you _been_? Anna and I have been waiting for hours!"

"Calm down, Woody," Caleb replied, glancing nervously at the door. "Don't want our slightly-less-than-Patriot neighbors to hear. As it were, I was trackin' ol' Rogers 'imself."

The two stared, dumbstruck. "Y-you saw him?" Anna stuttered, finally finding her voice. "Where?"

"Just when the crowd began to break up, I seen 'im lopin' away toward the harbor, so I took after him and followed the bastard all the way to the _Bulging Bride_."

"The tavern? That's on the mainland!"

"Ay, makes sense why I was gone so long, doesn't it? Ol' Rogers caught a ride on a raft, so I followed in Creely's rowboat. Looks like that cabin boy did right; the boat was right where Percy told 'im to put it. Anyway, I followed Rogers to the _Bride_ but didn't want to risk 'im recognizing me, so I waited across the street, just behind the sign for the brothel. Stood there for hours, but Rogers never came out, so I decided to risk it and walk in. Still no Rogers. But there _is_ a cellar door right inside the kitchen, so unless he just likes hangin' around in smelly cellars for no reason—"

"—that's most likely where Ben is!" Abe finished, his anger at the courier's tardiness forgotten. "We could have been standing on top of him the first night we came to the city!"

Anna, who had listened to Caleb's tale in silence, now stood to speak. "There's a back cellar door that leads to the alley in all taverns. That way the barrels of ale can get in without someone carrying them through the front door," she said in a low tone. "That's how we can get Ben out."

"But how do we get in? The cellar door's in the kitchen, and the barkeep's always about. Besides," Caleb sighed, looking at the two apologetically, "Rogers knows Abe's face and yours too, Anna. If he's in that cellar when we go get Ben, Culper'll be found out."

Anna's face contorted with thought for a moment, then hardened like stone. "I've got a plan; it will be risky, but I don't see what else we can do. Abe, you need to position your cart near the back of the tavern, and get rid of those crates in the back."

. . .

Once more, Abe walked into the _Bulging Bride_ , this time alone. It seemed as if he'd never left; women with tottering hair still babbled on to drunken men, laughter still boomed from all directions, the smell of ale-induced vomit still lingered. He went up to the barkeep and ordered a drink, silently observing Caleb tipping one back on the other side of the tavern.

Anna entered a few minutes later, her hair adorned in lace, a bit of rouge tinting her cheeks. She wore a flattering forest green dress, simple in its flourishes but enhancing her figure in all the proper places. Even at a glance, the drunkest of men could tell that—though she may not be a member of the highest society—she certainly wasn't another girl from the brothel.

"One ale, please," she asked of the barkeep, who fetched it immediately and tipped his tricorn as he placed it in front of her.

"Anythin' else I can get you, mum?"

"Actually, I was wondering how long this establishment has been here. I've just arrived, you see, and have an interest in local history." Anna kept him talking for a few minutes, smiling at the right moments and laughing at his ill-formed jokes, all the while maintaining an air of admiration and respect for the barkeep's knowledge of the structure and its owner. "It seems that if…the mistress of this tavern is such a collector of paintings, I imagine there would be quite a few lovely pieces upstairs." Anna leaned forward, placing a hand softly over the barkeep's. "Even though she's away, do you think you could give me a quick peep?" Anna cocked her head to the side, staring intently at the man melting before her. Dropping her voice she whispered, "It'll only take a few minutes."

The barkeep swallowed, a look of eagerness immediately washing over his face. Glancing quickly around at his customers and finding that they were all deep in their cups, he held out one hand to Anna, motioning to the stairway just beside the kitchen door. "Right this way, madam."

Abe and Caleb watched her ascend, then quietly stole into the kitchen, spotting the cellar door. "Alright, now pull up your handkerchief," Caleb whispered to Abe, who had already begun to reach for the dark cloth in his pocket. He tied it tightly, covering everything but his eyes, then pulled his tricorn low. His features hidden, Abe nodded to Caleb, and they swung open the heavy cellar door.

Candles littered a small shelf to the left of the door; Caleb lit one and descended, Abe following. "There's the door leading to the alley." Caleb pointed at the opposite wall where tiny streaks of moonlight filtered through a wooden hatch, illuminating millions of tiny dust particles. "Okay, Ben, where are you?"

The two barely had enough room to move; barrels of ale stood in no particular order, while crates of rum and whiskey—some half-full, some empty—filled most of the walking space between the brews. Abe and Caleb kept to the walls as much as possible, their footfalls softened by layers of dirt and grime on the floor.

"Woody, there's a door!" Caleb's hand reached out to tap the wall; sure enough, a hollow sound echoed back. "Help me move these damn barrels outta the way!" The two maneuvered the barrels as quietly as possible, being careful not to jingle any bottles of spirits that might be underfoot. Resting a hand on the doorknob, Abe glanced at Caleb, who nodded. With one quick motion, the door swung open.

Ben lay in a crumpled heap on the dirt floor, oily hair covering his face and a bloodstained bandage clumsily tied over his trousers on his left thigh. Caleb rushed to him, nearly throwing down the candle as he did so. "Benny-boy!" he whispered sharply. "Ben, wake up, you bastard! We've come to take you back! Come on, Ben, come to!"

The forlorn figure stirred slightly. Slowly, his face turned toward the flickering light, revealing a split lip, a bloody nose long-crusted over, and a purplish black eye. "Christ, what has he done to you?" Caleb breathed.

"Caleb? Is that you?" Ben asked weakly, then broke into a fit of coughing.

"Yeah, it's me, Ben. We're here to take you home."

Abe silently knelt down by his friend's side to cut the ropes around his ankles; as the knife flashed in the candlelight, however, Ben tensed and shrank back. "Who are you?" he demanded, an undeniable hint of terror in his voice. "What are you doing?"

"It's all right, Ben," Caleb reassured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It's just W—"

Suddenly all three froze, having heard heavy footfalls making their way to the door of the secret room. Rogers' form appeared in the doorway, his face aglow with the wavering light of a dying candle. The pupils of his eyes reflected the flame as he stepped over the threshold, a half-full bottle of whiskey swinging in his left hand.

"So," he said evenly, "Ye think you can take my prisoner? I've got to admit, I had lost hope of anyone comin' fer the lad. But," he added, tipping the bottle to his lips and then shattering it on the ground, "it'll be nice to have someone else to dance with. So stand out o' the shadows and fight, ye fiend!" he roared, pulling a dagger from his belt. Abe and Caleb responded instantly, shielding Ben behind them while pulling weapons of their own.

Rogers had barely taken a step toward them, however, when a loud _clang!_ echoed through the room. Rogers' vengeful scowl gave way to one of sudden pain, and he fell forward onto the dirt floor with a dull _thud_ , the dagger flying from his grasp. Anna stood over him holding a large brass candlestick; one look told the others she had done the same to the barkeep.

"I saw Rogers call out the back cellar door," she said, her skirts billowing around her as she knelt to help Ben up. "More men are on the way; we've got to hurry."

"Alright, Benny-boy, we've got to get you up," Caleb said as soon as Abe cut through his bonds, wrapping an arm around Ben's torso. Anna lifted on the other side, and slowly Ben stumbled to his feet. "Let's get out of here, eh?"

Abe went ahead with the candle, passing through the hidden doorway and swinging open the heavy cellar doors that led to the alley. As he emerged to scope out their path from the cellar to his cart, however, rough hands seized him by the collar and pulled him upward, their grip getting stronger by the second. "Men, they're over here!" a deep voice bellowed. "Comin' out the back way!"

Abe lost no time; vaguely aware that his three companions were stumbling out of the cellar as quickly as possible, he felt for the paring knife hidden in the sleeve of his jacket. But strong arms squeezed him into a tight chokehold, forcing him to abandon the search for the knife in order to claw at his throat. He saw Caleb, holding most of Ben's weight, glance at him as he struggled. Using the rest of his breath, Abe managed the word, "Go," watching as the courier nodded, continuing to help Ben limp along. Anna's gaze, however, lingered a bit longer as she struggled to keep up with Caleb's hurried steps while at the same time ensuring that Abe was okay. As he struggled, Abe saw in her eyes something he had never seen in them before: panic.

Locking eyes with her, Abe put his boot down hard on his captor's foot, causing the unknown enemy to howl in pain. His hold loosened just enough; in one swift motion Abe pulled out the paring knife and plunged it to the hilt in his enemy's bicep. The great man shrieked and reeled; Abe pulled out the knife and kicked him hard in the stomach, then turned to run as fast as he could to his cart. The entire incident with this man had taken less than fifteen seconds.

Anna and Caleb had just lay Ben in the cart as Abe leapt up, grabbing the reins and snapping them with a loud, "Gee up!" just as two more of Rogers' men rounded the corner. The horses sprang readily into action, the cart bouncing violently in tow. The pursuers were determined, though; rather than abandoning the chase, Rogers' men leapt onto two more horses tied at a hitching post and urged them into action, gaining quickly on the cart.

"Faster, they're gaining on us!" Caleb shouted as a bullet whizzed by his head, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He whipped out a pistol himself, taking aim at the nearest rider and firing, letting out a hearty whoop as the man tumbled from the saddle.

Anna's head popped up beside Caleb's, her own pistol in hand and ready to fire. "No, Anna!" Caleb hissed, taking aim once more. "Rogers' men might recognize you; best if you stay down!" He took another shot and whooped again as the other rider fell.

"Checkpoint ahead!" Abe shouted, thundering through the small blockade of redcoats who shouted obscenities as the cart sprayed muck onto those who leapt out of the way. "They'll follow; get ready for more!"

Like flies to rotting meat, three more horsemen appeared out of the growing fog, shortening the distance to the cart at a rapid pace. Caleb shot another, but as he pulled the trigger again, aiming at the second, he felt the weapon jam. "What the—" he exclaimed, ducking as a shot was fired by the lobsterbacks. "Son of a—"

Before he knew what was happening, Caleb felt his hat being ripped off his head. Unable to comprehend the rapid movement beside him, he heard a shot rip through the darkness, then looked up just in time to see another redcoat fall, his horse spooking and galloping in front of the third. The last horse, cut off so suddenly by its companion, reared and threw the last redcoat to the ground.

Caleb swiveled around to face Anna, who donned his hat and held a smoking pistol. Her face was smeared with what seemed like mud; she blended so well with the night that he could only see the flash of her teeth as she smiled back at him. "Anna!" he gasped, his gaze jumping between the pistol and her darkened face. "Where the hell did you get that gunk to put on your face?"

"Don't ask," she replied, pulling Caleb's hat even lower on her forehead. "I think Abe transported hogs in here on his last trip, and I suppose he forgot to wash out the cart."

Despite himself, Caleb erupted into exuberant laughter, his smile nearly splitting his cheeks in two. Gripping her in a bone-breaking hug, he shouted, "Right here! This gal right here has more balls than half the Continental Army, and the _whole_ of the King's lily-livered curs!"

"Don't celebrate yet," Abe called back to them. "We've got two more checkpoints to run through, and with this cart I can't cut through the woods as I'd like to."

"Ah, don't worry 'bout us," Caleb replied cheerfully. "With your lass smeared all over with hog-shit and ol' Brewster cheerin' at every man who falls, no one would dare to cross this madman's cart! Now toss me your pistol, so's I might have somethin' to fight with."

. . .

Warm rays of sunlight trickled in through the open flap of the tent, brightening the dingy cloth Anna had placed on Ben's forehead. His eyes flickered open as the tent warmed, blurry vision clearing after a few minutes. His entire body ached; it was an effort to even blink, for his black eye had become inflamed.

The cot creaked as he reached for a cup sitting on the bedside table, jolting Anna—who was dozing in a stiff rocking chair—into action. "Ben," she breathed, a relieved smile breaking over her face, "You're awake! The others will be thrilled to hear; I'll run out to get them—"

"No." Ben's croaking voice stopped her in her tracks. "Not yet, Anna."

She returned to his side, pressing the cup to his lips. He drank greedily, asking for another cupful of the lukewarm water. She gave it to him, watching intently as he sipped slower this time. "Is there anything to eat?" was his next question, and he turned his head in search of a plate.

"I brought this in a few hours ago when you were talking. It's cold now, but still good." She gestured to a bowl of what looked like lumpy gray oatmeal. "Well, edible."

Ben looked at her in confusion. "When I was…I don't remember…Anna, how long have I been out?" He didn't bother to hide the urgency in his voice.

Anna took a deep breath before she answered. "You passed out just after we loaded you into the wagon last night…and haven't been yourself since we carried you back here to Morristown. It's almost evening now; nearly twenty hours since we found you."

"Christ," Ben muttered, lifting an arm to tussle his hair, wincing at the pain, then slowly easing it back to its original position. "Does…does anyone know why I'm wounded? The men in the camp, I mean?"

"No," Anna replied evenly. "We arrived in the wee hours of the morning; Caleb woke Sackett, and already he's circulating rumors that you've been wounded on a top secret mission for Washington." She hesitated, then decided to add, "Your reputation's still intact."

Ben heaved a sigh of relief, sagging into the pillows. "Thank goodness. If the men knew—" He stopped short, noticing for the first time hot tears streaming down Anna's face. "Anna, what's wrong?"

Anna stepped toward him, tears still spilling down cheeks ablaze with anger. "You could have died, Ben," she choked out, locking eyes with the stunned soldier. "You could have died at the hands of Rogers, and all you think to ask when you come to is if your _reputation_ has been saved? The whole bloody world should know what a foolish thing you did!"

"I couldn't just _sit here_ and wait!" Ben exclaimed, sitting up as best he could. "We were doing _nothing_ here; you don't know what it was like—"

"Maybe not here, but I damn well know what you walked into!" she snapped, shaking her head fiercely at him. "If Abe and Caleb were here they'd—"

"We'd what?" Caleb's voice called through the flap of the tent, followed by his figure a moment later. Abe entered as well, crowding the tiny space. "Tell 'im what a rat-bastard he is for runnin' off? Scold 'im for gettin' himself captured, not just by anyone, but by Robert Damn-Him Rogers? Or maybe," Caleb continued, his voice growing huskier as he stooped over the cot and grabbed the collar of Ben's shirt, only to shove him down once more onto his blankets, "maybe we'll just rough 'im up a bit. Show 'im how much we risked our arses to save his sorry hide."

Abe had stood by the end of the cot throughout Caleb's scene, fingers pressed firmly to his lips. Only after Caleb finished did he speak. "Why did you do it, Ben?" The words came out in a low whisper, fingers still pressed together in front of his face. "Why did you run?"

"I wasn't running!" the soldier retorted, gazing fiercely at the three stony faces surrounding him. "I was simply trying to make something happen! Washington said we needed a man in York City; I was trying to follow orders!"

"If you were trying—" Abe shouted, then checked himself, glancing around as if noticing for the first time that the tent wasn't soundproof. Lowering his voice, he started again. "If you were trying to follow orders, why in hell didn't you _tell_ Washington where you were going? It was a fool's errand from the start, Ben, and you know it."

"Of course I know it! You think I don't? Rogers treated me worse than a dog, and cut me up like a piece of meat, and you think I don't know I was being foolish? But I had to do _something_ ; we were sitting here, the army wasting away from disease, and I couldn't _stand_ the thought of the British gaining intelligence as we did nothing! I thought—"

Yet another person entered, his presence dominating the scene as he stepped through the flap of the tent. Ben's fierce stare softened into one of reproach, and the others shrank away as best they could; this was a fight for Ben alone.

Washington's eyes locked onto Ben's as he advanced, never acknowledging the other three. He looked down upon Ben with a stern, hardened face, not speaking until he had halted at the side of his soldier's cot. "Benjamin Tallmadge," came the deep, low voice. "I see you have returned from your 'mission' in quite a vulnerable state. I shall give you a day to recover, but once you have regained some strength I should like to discuss your foolhardy and pigheaded actions. As Head of Intelligence I am astonished that you would show such ignorance, breeching the trust you stressed so intently during our first meeting."

Ben could only manage a weak, "Yes, sir," and dropped his gaze to his lap.

Washington turned his back to the soldier, glancing around the tent for the first time. "And you two," he said, eyes stopping on Abe and Anna, "I think it would be best if you left tomorrow at dawn." Seeing their nods of assent, the general left without another word.

Silence hung heavily in the tent. No one looked directly at Ben, instead occupying themselves by shuffling their feet or picking at their nails. Anna soon excused herself, taking the cold oatmeal off the table and stepping out to find something warmer. Abe soon followed with the claim of wanting to get some fresh air.

Caleb, however, piddled about a bit longer, rummaging through the pockets of his trench coat to procure a good-sized flask. He took a swig himself, then held it out to Ben, flashing a wide smile. "Ah, come on, Benny-boy. You need it more than I do right now."

Against his better judgement, Ben smiled back, grabbing the flask and taking a long drink. "Thanks Caleb," he said when he came up for air, holding the flask out to his friend.

"Keep it for now," Caleb replied, nodding his head toward the entrance to the tent. "There's plenty more there that came from, on account o' yours truly knowin' the black market." He slapped Ben on the shoulder, his good-humored smile growing as the soldier winced. "And Ben," he added, his eyes roaming from the wounded thigh to the split lip to the cut just visible near Ben's collarbone, "It's good to have you back."

The rest of the evening passed peacefully, the way all evenings do when a desperate adventure comes happily to an end. Abe, Anna, Caleb, and Ben all squeezed back into the tent for supper, passing around a couple bottles of Madeira and laughing at memories from long ago. The last week fell from their minds for a time; indeed, if it wasn't for Ben's bright blue jacket neatly draped across the back of a chair, they would have forgotten the war and the part they played in it. Perhaps they all _did_ forget, at least for a few moments; Anna's smile and Caleb's jokes and Ben's booing and Abe's laughter transported them back to Setauket, back to their tiny make-shift camps by the sound. Back then, playing war seemed so real; now, when they truly thought about it, it seemed like a nightmare.

Eventually Anna wandered out of the tent, telling Ben that if he needed fresh dressings for his wound during the night she'd be in the nursing tent, only one over. Caleb and Abe stumbled out about an hour later, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. Alone at last, Ben settled himself underneath his blanket, wincing slightly at the soreness of his body. He smiled as he lay in the darkness, listening to the crude jokes, clinking bottles, and shuffling feet of the men in the camp. The sounds of life teeming about, of men ready at a moment's notice to march with Washington, gave him hope. Tomorrow he was sure the guilt and foolishness he felt about running would bubble up once more, but tonight he simply appreciated that he was where he belonged. His place was to protect Culper, and he had put the Culper Ring in danger by running off to do Abe's job. Thankfully, though, all had ended as well as possible; Culper was safe—more importantly, Caleb, Abe, and Anna were safe—and they had saved _him_ from Rogers. Slowly, the soldier drifted to sleep, his mind lost in the first peaceful slumber he had had in a week.

. . .

The next morning, Abe and Anna stood in front of Ben, their cart ready to leave. Ben glanced back and forth at them both, out of bed and dressed in his usual blue uniform. "Remember what I told you," he said. "If you can manage a way back into the city, try to get to the boarding house in the Bowery. I never caught the name of the man who runs the place, but rumor has it that he's a Quaker from Oyster Bay whose views are a bit unsteady. Washington still needs a man in York City; it's up to you to find one."

Abe smiled, nodding. "We'll get back in. Don't worry; we'll find him." Ben smiled back, the two silently communicating for the other to be as careful as possible. Then, without warning, Abe strongly embraced his friend, saying nothing, but letting him know that it was a relief to have him back in camp. Ben returned the gesture, and they broke apart grinning.

"Anna," Ben sighed, stepping toward her with open arms. She hugged him as well, chuckling softly as he whispered, "Keep him in line, will you?"

"Only if you keep Brewster out of trouble," she replied.

Abe helped Anna into the cart, waving across the camp to Caleb. He waved a flaming tomahawk back, already settling into his natural, easy-going state. As Abe whipped the reins, however, another man he had never seen before sprinted up to the cart, puffing and blowing.

"I'm Nathaniel Sackett," he said once he caught his breath, "And I hear that you need a bit of coin and supplies to help sell your story back home."

Abe and Anna both looked at each other, then at the man. "I-it would certainly help," Abe stammered, "But I was just going to say we were mugged, or—"

"Nonsense. Too many holes in your story as it is," Sackett cut in, handing Abe a small bag of coins and a note. "This is from 'Cooke'; unfortunately, you didn't get to his camp as quickly as he desired, so he only paid you regular price. And you, my dear, can pick up whatever 'tavern supplies' you need in the shed over there."

Abe and Anna both smiled, thanking him for the money. Rather than hurry away, however, Sackett lingered, staring at Abe with intense curiosity. "So you're the infamous Abraham Woodhull," he breathed, checking to see if anyone could ear. "I never thought I'd lay eyes on you."

Abe nodded kindly in response, gathering the reins. "No sir, I think you're mistaken. I'm Culper. Samuel Culper." With that he whipped the reins once more, steering them toward the shed filled with supplies.

The ride back seemed long; neither spoke for hours, exhausted from the past few days, yet unwilling to return to the reality of Setauket. The sun brightened as they bounced along, its rays falling lazily through the trees and warming their faces. The clop-clop-clop of hooves against dirt and the creak-creak-creak of turning wooden wheels echoed about them; everything else lay quiet and peaceful.

It was Anna who broke the silence, shattering the illusion that the world had seen nothing but harmony in all its ages. "It's a dangerous business, isn't it?"

"Oh ay," Abe replied, trying to preserve the light mood of the morning. "But it's the one we've chosen, and we're more vital to the Patriot cause than ever. You saw that camp, Anna. They need information. They need us."

"No, Abe. I meant…I meant us. Being seen together." She sighed, her gaze falling to her lap. "I'm a suspected Patriot, Abe, and even though I jumped from that boat, the people of Setauket will never forget that I married a Strong. Nor will they forget my father's views. If you and I were caught…together…your cover as a Loyalist would be shattered." Her shoulders drooped as she finished, and she wrung her hands together in her lap. The burden of her confession took its toll instantly; even the sun seemed a bit less bright.

"Hey," Abe cooed, placing an arm around her and pulling her close, "It's all right. We've got to be more careful, that's all. No more meeting in broad daylight with only trees for cover; that's all the change that needs to happen." Gently planting a kiss on her forehead, he whispered, "I promise, Anna. I promise we will find a way to be together. We always will."

As her form nestled closer to his, as the cart swayed and bumped nearer to Setauket, as beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck as the sun rose higher, Abe thought of what home would bring. He thought of Major Hewlett sitting perched like a god in the church. He thought of his father roaming about Whitehall, scrutinizing his every move. He thought of the townsfolk, whose anger that bubbled just beneath the surface could erupt into action if properly prodded. He thought of Mary's scowl if he trotted into town with Anna seated beside him.

Rather than discourage him, however, Abe found that these obstacles merely hardened his reserve. This was his purpose, to walk the fine line between the chaos and weave his way inward. He had found his place; he had found what he was called to do. He pulled Anna closer, wishing that she, too, could always walk beside him in their secret balancing act. For now, however, he had to settle with this ever-shortening ride back, determined to savor every moment.


End file.
